You would have me a credulous fool: a laughing-stock for the player and his patch. No, no! I am schooled in time. Who stoops, suffers: the man who would win me, must have no Violet. LACY: It is nobler to trust too much than too little. MISS FITTON: I do wrong to be angry. Let us join the others, my lord, and take my thanks for your warning. [_Walking towards the others._] Violet is a pretty name! SCENE V. HERBERT: [_Enters; the ladies flock together and giggle; he goes to them._] Well, Lady Cynthia, what’s the story? LADY CYNTHIA: Story? HERBERT: The story that made you all laugh as I came in. LADY CYNTHIA: There was no story. HERBERT: It was truth, you mean. [_Lady Cynthia curtsies._] Something pointed at me. What was it? LADY CYNTHIA: Why should you think it was about you? HERBERT: What was it, then? You silly girl, if you don’t tell, the others will. LADY CYNTHIA: [_Turning to them in appeal._] You won’t, will you, girls? MISS FITTON: Of course they will; women always tell of each other, so I’ll save them the trouble. Lady Cynthia said, she’d rather be the Queen you knelt to, than the Captain you struck. LADY CYNTHIA: Oh, I didn’t, I didn’t. I’ll never forgive you, Mary Fitton, never! MISS FITTON: Well, if you didn’t say it, I do, so protest’s useless. HERBERT: And would you be the Queen, lady? MISS FITTON: Perhaps; for women can win, though conquered. HERBERT: Then conquest does not frighten you? MISS FITTON: Nothing frightens us but indifference. We women are fortresses, only sure of our valour when we’re attacked: only convinced of our strength when we’re taken, and as proud of being won as men are of winning. HERBERT: If the fortress is as strong as your tongue is sharp, ’Twould need a Paladin to attempt it. MISS FITTON: Only cowards fear the strength of their opposites, and you, my lord, are no coward. HERBERT: [_Laughing, as if flattered._] How do you know that, lady? MISS FITTON: By double proof, my lord. HERBERT: Double proof? MISS FITTON: Yes: you strike a Captain of thirty, and kiss a Queen of sixty. Give you good e’en, my lord! [_Curtsies, and turns to go._] HERBERT: You shan’t escape like that! [_Catches her by the waist._] You must pay for your impertinence. Come, give me your lips, beauty. MISS FITTON: [_Holding her head away._] That were to turn play into earnest. HERBERT: So much the better. [_Their eyes meet._] I can be earnest, too. [_He kisses her; she draws away._] LACY: If I intrude, I flex the knee: I’m sage-green with jealousy; or shall I scent the lambent air with flowered gratulation? HERBERT: [_Irritably._] I wish you’d talk naturally, like a man, and not like a popinjay. LACY: